


got a call (they asked for me by name)

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Din is a Tired Single Dad, Hitman AU, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Self-Indulgent Drivel, call centers, mild description of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29789493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Din Djarin is making some extra cash on night shifts for a call center that caters to a very specific clientele — those looking to make other people disappear. Din can't afford to ask questions when his rent is due and his kid needs to eat, so he answers the calls and doesn't raise a fuss.It only takes one phone call to unravel it all.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 19
Kudos: 70





	got a call (they asked for me by name)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smilecapsules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilecapsules/gifts).



> Inspired by [this post](https://definition-of-awkward.tumblr.com/post/644466749398515712/) on Tumblr, extremely self-indulgent fic here, please do not take me to seriously

Din Djarin had worked a lot of shitty jobs over the years, and ever since he’d decided to actually go back to school and finish his bachelor’s degree, he’d worked even  _ shittier _ jobs in an attempt to make enough money to scrape by on living expenses and school loans. 

That, and child care, since he had a son now. 

Seemed a little weird, still, that he had a  _ son, _ but Din wouldn’t give Grogu up for the world. He’d do anything for him. 

Even go to an interview for a rather sketchy ad in the paper for a job that boasted  _ ‘competitive pay rates’ _ and  _ ‘flexible hours’. _

Well, he needed more money, and he needed flexible hours, to make it through all of his classes during the day and still be able to squeeze in a few hours of work in the evenings. 

So that’s how Din found himself working the night shift for a call center — a small operation, barely more than a few office rooms with plenty of space between cubicles that were rotated in usage with the day shifts as well — setting up assignments for clients and handling payments by phone. 

The employees who handled the assignments… 

He rarely saw them, but when he did, each one was dressed impeccably in a finely tailored suit, and sometimes he could even glimpse the shoulder holsters under their jackets. All of them, each accepting their assignments from Greef, the information of which were already organised for them, and off they went, to fulfill the requests. 

_ Requests. _

If Din wasn’t so exhausted from the long hours he’d been putting in working on essays in between shifts and classes, he would’ve laughed. 

_ Requests,  _ yes. 

_ Assassinations, _ also yes. 

“You’re not concerned about the, ah,  _ services _ we offer?” Greef had asked him, when Din had shown up for the interview in his thrift store suit that didn’t fit right on the shoulders and a tie that he hadn’t managed to tie quite right. 

Din had just shrugged and asked how much they paid. 

At twenty-five bucks an hour, Din wasn’t going to ask questions about what kind of services he was offering to clients over the phone. 

And with the added bonus of usually being on the same shift as when the  _ prettiest fucking hitman _ came to pick up his assignments, Din  _ really _ wasn’t going to complain. It wasn’t like he got out much, what with his schedule and making sure his kid had a little enrichment in his life, too. Din could enjoy sneaking peeks at a hot sorta-colleague who always wore a splash of dark red on his person somewhere without ever making eye contact or talking with him, as a treat. 

Just a little something to think about, as he lay in bed  _ much _ later that night, as he drifted off to sleep, too tired to do much more than collapse into bed for a few hours before he needed to be up to get Grogu ready for daycare, make him breakfast, blow some raspberries on his soft little belly. Morning stuff. The stuff that brought a smile to Din’s face, no matter how tired he was. 

For a little while, at least, everything in Din’s messy life seemed like it was coming together. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him, really, when it all started to fall apart. 

The moment it really started to unravel, he supposed, was one otherwise uneventful Friday afternoon. Saturday would be his first day off in a long time, to work on an essay he’d let go overdue, mostly, but also to take Grogu to the park, since the weather was supposed to be pleasant, and he was excited to end his shift and go home to sleep and enjoy a fucking day off, for once. 

He didn’t think anything of it when he pressed the button to accept an incoming call, watching the program on his computer effortlessly decode the scrambler used by the caller to hide their number, and typed it dutifully into a fresh form. 

Didn’t think anything of it, until the client with the softly accented voice spoke the name of the target. 

“Can you confirm the spelling, please,” said Din, automatically, although his voice sounded like it was coming from miles away, to his ears. 

_ “Of course,” _ said the client.  _ “Last name Djarin, D-J-A-R-I-N, first name Din, D-I-N. Confirmed?” _

“Confirmed,” said Din, and once payment has been confirmed — one hundred thousand dollars seemed cheap, suddenly, now that it was his life it was paying to end — he pressed the button to end the call. 

His hands were shaking. 

The computer beeped, the  _ submit _ button blinking at the bottom of the form, having noted that the call had ended. His own name, typed in block text, stared back at him, and Din tapped the keys hurriedly to go back to the boxes and delete it. 

Only— 

Barely a moment later— 

His name rewrote itself into the file. 

_ Invalid edit, _ read the little pop-up window with a glaring red outline, flashing twice before vanishing. 

He tried again. 

Same pop-up, same letters rewriting themselves. 

Of  _ course _ the system would have some backup built in, to prevent the people receiving the calls from inserting any name they liked in place of another. And he’d typed it in himself, on autopilot, like a fool. 

Signed his own death warrant, as it were. 

_ Auto-submitting request in 5… 4… 3… 2…  _

Din clicked  _ submit. _

Sealed his fate. 

Wasn’t much he could do about it now, was there? 

Another call beeped on the line, and Din removed his headset, leaving his bag and dinner pail by his seat while he walked from the office, casually, grateful he’d left his wallet and keys in his pockets, at least. 

When the door closed behind him in the empty hallway, he broke into a run. 

He had to get home. 

He had to get to Grogu. 

The sitter was a little surprised when he burst into his shitty little apartment and told her he could take over, but she took the extra twenty bucks he handed her and left, easy as that. Then it was only a matter of shoving the necessities — things for the kid, mostly — into a duffel bag, and they could be out the door and on the road in— 

The door clicked shut, the lock loud in the sudden silence as Din froze. 

And when he lifted his head from the bag, only half packed on the floor, there was a man in an impeccable suit standing over him, with a gun leveled at his head. 

A tired sigh escaped Din, and he let the tiny outfits he’d been stuffing half-folded into the duffel fall out of his hands. “At least it’s you,” he said, sitting back on his heels, meeting the sharp hazel gaze behind the long barrel of the silencer, and that handsome head tilted slightly, not a single silvery hair in disarray. 

“What’s that?” said the man, and it was  _ that _ hitman. Din’s hitman. Not  _ his, _ but— 

“At least it’s you,” he said again. He was so tired. “Out of all of them, you’re the one I— wanted to meet the most. Someday.” Over a coffee, maybe. Or in a twenty-four hour diner, like the one down the street from the call center office, that always had hordes of dazed college students wandering through it no matter the hour. “Didn’t think it would be like this.” 

The hitman didn’t move. If Din hadn’t seen him blink, he might have thought he was a statue. He’d taken the route of a red tie today, and it looked good, nestled snugly to around the collar of his shirt. 

Din took a chance. Took a breath. Wasn’t shot for it, so he said, his voice cracking, “Can you take care of him for me? Once it’s— done.” 

Once he was dead, that is. 

“Take care of who?” said the man, and Din finally noticed that he had a bit of a Southern drawl to his words. It was cute, actually. 

“The kid,” said Din. “Grogu.” 

And those pretty hazel eyes narrowed, glinting in the dim lamplight.  _ “What kid?” _

“Papa?” 

Oh,  _ fuck. _

Din turned, and there was Grogu, toddling out of his room and rubbing his eyes, clearly woken up by either Din’s rustling around the apartment in his frenzied packing or by their voices. He came right up to Din, arms out, and Din picked him up out of habit. 

Hoped that his hitman wouldn’t choose to shoot him then, and splatter his brains all over his kid. 

His hitman didn’t shoot, and his brains were still intact inside his skull — well, questionably intact — as he looked up at the other man, forcing a smile on trembling lips. “Grogu, this is—” 

And fuck it all, he didn’t know the man’s name— 

“Cobb,” said his hitman, his name slipping out softly, like a gift. “Cobb Vanth.” 

“Cobb,” repeated Din. “This is Cobb, alright, kid? He’s gonna— he’s gonna take care of you from now on, alright?” 

And Cobb Vanth, the hitman,  _ his _ hitman, crouched to the floor, lowering his gun and offering his other hand — gloved in soft black leather — to Grogu. 

_ “We’ll _ be taking care of you,” said Cobb, and his gaze flicked to meet Din’s over the kid’s head. “Won’t we, Din Djarin?” 

Funny how his name could be a death sentence not even an hour before, and now it sounded like a salvation. 


End file.
